monsoon season

steamy breath of asphalt cigarettes

sandals slapping puddles and the dogs

scurrying, tails low, to avoid the raindrops

skittering across poppy petals

faraway thunder grumbles in

the half-sunny, half-black sky

and i keep walking, still

far from home

Eye of the Night


Photo from 

I am dripping
like eaves of a house
in a rainstorm
They say it gets easier
When the sun goes down
It always rises
in the morning
So for now
I am drenched
in the dark
that will last all night

The Torrential Downpour I Walked Through

The walk home today started off well enough.

It was raining good-naturedly and I was clad in my impermeable purple coat.

Rain, lovely rain!

I tromped happily through a few puddles before noticing a slight wetness seeping into my socks.

Ah, doesn’t bother me!

I decided not to take the bus home, and chuckled at the amorphous hunchback blobs trudging to the bus shelter.

But, one-fifth of the way through my walk, I started to resent the rain.

I saw a few runners who appeared very Zen and I couldn’t help but glare at them from under my dripping hood.

My socks were steadily absorbing water and the puddles around me were beginning to resemble a replica of Lake Ontario.

Coursing rivers had taken over the asphalt.

To distract myself, I created a song about the wonders of rain.

Rain, it feeds our crops!

Now, I know there are many uses for rainwater, but this was literally the only one I could recall.

You water those plants, rain!

My jeans were sopping, clinging to my thighs like an unwanted guy dancing too close at the club.

My cute boots were chafing my toes through the thin layer of sodden sock.

My cute boots were not waterproof and not so cute anymore,

Once they were mud-colored instead of white.

Okay, now, that’s enough, I said sternly to the sky.

It didn’t listen.

Thanks to osmosis and gravity, I now could feel frigid wet stripes running from my torso to ankle down each leg.

Come ON, rain! Knock it off.

Bloated worms were swept down the sidewalk. I was witnessing death.

Three-fifths of the way home, I began thanking God.

I do not believe in God, but I thanked it anyway.

I also didn’t want to admit I was talking to myself again.

Hey God, I’m so glad I have a house to go back to.

I couldn’t wait to strip off my soggy layers, brew a cup of tea, and turn on the space heater.

I’m sure all this water serves a purpose.

As usual, there was no reply.

I had many deep thoughts during this walk.

For example, I pondered crop growth factors. For another example, I contemplated earthworm mortality rates. I fantasized about Hawaii, where I hear the rain falls warm.

After twenty minutes, I was thoroughly drenched, but I had reached the final stage: acceptance.

A change of heart came over me as I reached my driveway. I kicked up my heels, frolicked in the showers, and twirled my way to the back door.

Once inside, I gazed out longingly.

Then I said, Oh, I just love the rain.

Rainy Day Rememberings

The day wears its gray shroud protectively, keeping the clouds tucked in close and sending roaring gales through the alder in the front yard. I’ve just showered. On the walk home from campus, the rain soaked my pants until denim melded to my skin and my socks oozed with every step. Our neighborhood smelled clean. I burst through my back door in a fit of chills and irritation.


A month ago I was in California. The temperature climbed up into the mid nineties every afternoon, and we stayed inside where it was cool, basking in the breeze of an electric fan. Now indoors is where I go to warm up beneath a blanket. A month ago, the grass was knee-high and cracked golden from perpetual sun. Lizards were more common than squirrels, darting from the dust path into the refuge of grapevines when my footfalls interrupted their sunbathing.


I found a baby rattlesnake. Marcus was unhappy because that meant he’d have to kill it, but Pierre volunteered. He took a picture of the snake with his phone first. The shovel that I’d been moving garden soil with was used. Pierre advanced on the snake; it seemed uncertain and terrified, tearing along the planting bed edge and rearing up to expose its slender rope of a body. Then a swift thump against the wood. I didn’t want to look. The rattlesnake’s head snapped on the ground, feet from its convulsing body. Marcus held it up to examine the underdeveloped rattle, and dark blood was trickling out where its head had been severed off. My face was wet. Pierre hooked an arm around my shoulders and tried to pull me close. I’m sorry, he said.